In the Future when All’s Well

Or

An overly contrived, complex and confusing scrawling pertaining to the mysteries of the universe, time-travel, mathematics, folk legends and why my life is getting shiter by the day.

Nuclear physicists are trying to unlock the origins of the universe and the Big Bang Theory by smashing together proton beams in the monstrous structure known as the Large Hadron Collider in the world’s biggest ever science experiment. Not sure it really needs that pre-fix with its 17 mile tunnel buried 300 feet beneath the surface on the borders of Switzerland and France. The biggest mystery lies in the origin of mass in the universe. Our current best theory includes a mechanism for generating the masses for all the particles in the universe called the Higgs mechanism. The holy-grail of these experiments is the search for the predicted existence of the Higgs Boson particle.

This is where things get weird. Some scientists have gone on record as saying that this enigmatic particle will never be found because it will come back to sabotage the past to keep itself from being discovered – it will literally usher space gremlins into the LHC’s mechanisms for a spanner-throwing bonanza and bring this beast to a grinding, shuddering halt. The machine has already spluttered into inaction once taking 14 months to get it up and running again.

A similar thing has been occurring in my own life. I’m not sure the perfect future that I envisaged from an early age can ever be achieved either. A strange intangible force has been busy sabotaging my own destiny as the Higgs Boson particle could be sabotaging the past for reasons as yet beyond our understanding.

As a young kid (of 9 or 10 years old), when I wasn’t poring over copies of 2000 AD or playing Uridium on my ZX Spectrum I was prophesizing about the future. I could see it all mapped out before me in inexplicable but vivid visions that were accurate to the point of blinking at the flickering shadows of my future actress wife’s form playfully dancing across the plaster of our boudoir’s candle-lit walls…

…She is correcting the slant of an incredibly detailed landscape painting (probably one of mine, although she’s wonderfully talented too) before slipping off her lacey white neglige as she slides between the satin sheets of our four-poster bed. The Rocky XIII soundtrack plays in the background. Posters of Winona Ryder and Yoda are somehow acceptably pinned to the surrounding walls. This is the future, the year 2000 and we are adults. Why would she be anywhere other than here in this beautifully secluded detached house of a movie writer/director who had even put in a few critically acclaimed cameos in his own films that had left the Hollywood establishment puzzling as to why he didn’t play the lead roles too? She is beautiful, blonde…

…for a while. Then her hair became sleek, black and she stopped being an actress and became a singer/songwriter who played guitar.

Although this metamorphosing girl undoubtedly loved me unrequitedly for some reason she never really uttered ‘owt. This didn’t seem to be a problem. She was effortlessly graceful as she flounced about the place.

Bear with me a second, this is getting slightly confusing. I’m now talking in the past tense about a perceived future that was dreamt up long ago but is apparently now a history that never occurred. Sheesh.

Er, anyway, I guess then we made love (or I fumbled under the Star Wars duvet cover with a copy of the Freeman's catalogue and a torch or something).

Of course, the futuristic year 2000 came, went and is now so passé that we can guffaw at its ludicrous video games, plod–rock nonsense, stupid candles and sleek black-haired, guitar-strumming nimbies with the knowledge that this would have been an awful future for all concerned. Albeit, mainly because of the atrocious music.

And this is where my own physics and mathematical equations come into things:

The thing is, there’s a point I believe according to my extensive deductions, where ‘the amazing possibilities for the future become outweighed by the stupid see-saw of time-passed, plus self-preservation instincts, divided by crushingly random unfair disappointment, multiplied by thoughtful wishes about tomorrow, divided by being abjectly realistic finally, that equals the dreamt-of perfect destiny impossible’. 

Or, more clearly:

(S.S.S.O.T.P. + S-P.I /

[C.R.U.D. * T.W.A.T. / B.A.R.F.]

~(P.F.T.F)

= 0.0000%

How awful.

I wonder if this is true for everyone. There’s probably not even a particularly memorable incident that pushes you beyond the point of never achieving your dreams. It might just be as humdrum as an instance where both of the local shops within slipper-venturing distance have run out of Wispas. It doesn’t seem a big deal as you trudge back home (cursing the laughing kids in the playground near to your house) but you’ve just tipped the scales beyond recuperation. Because of this minor disappointment you can’t be bothered to stop and answer that random questionnaire thrust into your face that would have seen you invited onto Gok Wan’s How To Look Good Naked. Subsequently, you’ll never meet that camera operator from the show who thought your bravery was second only to the amount of weight you’d lost in four weeks and proposed marriage live-on-air.

And you’ll never skid on that discarded lottery-winning ticket, breaking your nose in the process - it can’t all be good, c’mon. You can afford to get that shit fixed.

Oh, and you’ll pile those pounds (that you never lost) back on.

I think I might have tipped the scales. I hope not. I just kicked the same drink over for the second time. The signs aren’t good. And I had a dream last night…

...The candles fizz out. The painting on the wall looks like Munch’s The Scream but I’m sure it’s me standing on the bridge. The windows are open and in the moonlight this actress/singer wife girl thingy appears to have started to turn gingery-grey and grow fangs. There are strange pointed knobbles protruding down her exposed spine as she clambers over the fag-burnt bed covers drooling. I’m sure I can see horns in the shadows, and a tail. I think she’s the hag from a myth that we were told as children that stalked Eastfield Park - the Grey Lady who could be summoned from the stone statue in the circle of trees. And she’s waited all these years just for me. Shit...

Higgs Boson? What a rubbish name for a potential god particle with time-travelling abilities and a mischievous sense of the saboteur.

What do you mean this is a ridiculously tenuous analogy?

Here’s to the future when all’s well.

Halloween and why God Ain't all That

“Are we right to encourage our children to gamble with evil?” 

shrieked the headline of a double page article in the Chronicle & Echo on October 31, “even in a light-hearted event?” 

Intriguing fodder for thought from the clergy you might muse? But frankly it isn't. It's just stupid.

Included within this spurious diatribe festered some of the most fascinating yet risible statements, I’ve had both the joy and misfortune of spluttering my way through for, ooh, at least two days, (the astonishing autocratic and misleading untruths peddled by Alan Johnson and Gordon Brown regarding the reasons for sacking Bristol University's head of Psychopharmacology, Professor David Nutt, exemplified a complete knee-jerk contempt for scientific reasoning and the notion of soberly weighing-up evidence). 

Try this for size.

The Chronicle confidently claims that this is the burning question of the week. Said metaphysical quandary has apparently been giving Moulton Parish Church’s Reverend Peter Breckwoldt sleepless nights clutching his crucifix white-knuckled or cuddling a furry hot water bottle glugging away inside with steaming hot holy water right up to its rubbery screw-top, poor fellow.

EVIL

Gamble... Hmm... With evi-

Sorry, did he just say gamble with evil? Regarding Halloween?

I’d never considered this before for some reason. It had never once occurred, even for a fleeting moment, the myriad of demons or wraiths that could be involuntarily summoned because of a humble game of apple bobbing. Can you dare to envisage the armies of warlocks or shape-shifters that might use the simple carving of a pumpkin as some kind of gateway into our world before unleashing their pernicious fury? How about those beasts and behemoths that could manifest their physical being into our reality just because some devil-may-care teenager decides to buy a Dracula cape from Toys ‘R’ Us?

This is terrifying stuff.

Although, having said that, with a nanosecond of consideration, I’m not sure I quite understand where either the gambling or the evil enter into the equation?
 
It appears our plucky Reverend is precisely the kind of jamfool who believes that the tumbler's erratic waddling movement across a Ouija board isn’t down to your hilarious prankster mate Jeremy.

Or me.

SHAMELESS TWADDLE

The church has apparently been busily distributing leaflets to parishioners asking them to consider their responsibilities as parents when it comes to Halloween. Or roughly translated, trying to emotionally play on the vulnerabilities of people who have already been so indoctrinated that they struggle to peer beyond this shameless twaddle. What a waste of precious pamphlet material - they could have been pizza menus.

According to the leaflet: “Concentrating on evil brings fear to the impressionable young minds. For some it is upsetting and causes nightmares. This is often underestimated.”

Er, (snort) kind of (cough), 'scuse me - PTOOEY! - a little like teaching children that if they don’t live a God-fearing, altruistic, guilt-free existence then unfortunately it’s an eternity stretched agonisingly across the lake of fire while a particular horned Prince of Darkness gores excruciatingly at their nether-regions until the end of time. Which incidentally, never, ever, ever, ever ends.

WoAhAhAhAhAhAaHaAhAaHaA - cue flash of lightning...

zIiGgZzZzlAaAsH!

I remember thinking that I was going to burn in infinite torment shortly after discovering the wicked art of whacking-off. And by God, if as an adolescent you started to harbour any uncouth feelings of attraction towards persons of the same sex as yourself then forget the good deeds my son, it’s eternal damnation no matter what. Even if you saved forty-nine piping priests from a burning bazaar and perished rescuing the fiftieth.

This painful drivel continues: “Christians believe that evil is a real but defeated power. Halloween, however, is about evil triumphant, where it is in the ascendant and is given too much importance. For Christians, Halloween is a distortion of reality. It may also give children a false sense of the power of evil.” 

Holy shit. 

BRASS BOLLOCKED BUFFOON

Forgive me for taking the liberty of informing this feckless outmoded dunderhead that evil is not a hairy, fanged, four-legged phantom; neither is it an unmentionable, stench-ridden monstrosity kept shackled in the attic; and it ain't a bloodcurdling, shadowy miscreation that descends upon unsuspecting wretches who indulge in the odd seasonal pumpkin soup-slurping session, engulfing them in a tornado of cannibalistic zombie dust.

And it most certainly is not defeated.

Here’s what evil is:

Evil is the Islamic extremist who screeches, ‘Allahu Akbar' seconds before detonating his/her bomb-vest, indiscriminately slaughtering whichever innocent victims happen to be standing nearby. Evil is the calculating fiend who swipes a young girl off the street at a bus stop and bundles her into the back of his transit van, only for her to surface again years later as a pile of bones next to a motorway. Evil is the priest who abuses the children left in his trust and destroys their innocence and subsequently their lives. Evil is a former Hitler Youth Pope who staunchly opposes poverty-stricken Africans or Brazilians or Filipinos from using condoms in the midst of an apocalyptic AIDS pandemic. 

Evil is a stealthy Shaolin wasp lurking in your trackie b’s.

Ultimately, evil is human. 

It is homo sapien – a man or a woman. It is a bipedal, walking, talking, thinking, conscious and sadistic being with no empathy, no sympathy and no remorse. Evil is a person, or persons.

Kids know full well that witches and vampires and ogres and werewolves don't exist because this is regularly pointed out to them. What confuses things is when a bunch of adults tell them with stony-faced sincerity that there is a place called Hell where the landlord is a cloven-hoofed, horned sadist who doesn’t scrimp on the heating.

If you really want to see what strange forms evil can take then you need look no further than the Reverend Peter Breckwoldt himself and his ridiculous superstitious, hypocritical, baseless, mystical, humourless bunkum. I’d cast a horrible spell on this boneheaded, blithering bumblespanner if only such a thing existed. And he’s got a stupid nefarious name with letters that shouldn’t go together. I say don your cape and witches hat and cast this aberration asunder.

Praise the fucking lord for Satan.

666

666.

A Tiny Shift of Perspective

Okay, so earlier while idly trying to think of a puntastical pearl of gibberishness to leave on a friend's Facebook wall, Sky News droned away in the background and I vaguely caught the tail-end of a bulletin reporting that the highest ranking member of the British millitary so far had been killed in the war in Afghanistan. For some reason this caught my attention.


I half-consciously waited for it to roll round again as I struggled with too many verbs playing online Scrabble.

Now I say for some reason this caught my attention, not because I don't care and certainly not because I'm yet another shallow, self-centered SpaceBooker tweeting in the breeze. I mean fuck, I've followed world news and (our) current affairs relatively closely since 9/11, (Beeb, Al-J, Sky, Indie, Sun, P.Eye, Viz etc).

And for two reasons. The first being that when I watched the footage unfolding of the people jumping from the burning towers it occurred to me that I had no idea what could possibly drive anyone to want to cause that much pain and suffering and I had to find out. The second being that I'd realised that the only thing I'd ever been any good at was writing (apart from wasting time) and with life going nowhere, maybe I should think about a career in journalism. And follow the news.

I don't have a career in journalism - so merely a thruppence-worth.

Oh, and partly because of my philanthropic love of all god's children, as long as they don't just stop suddenly, brandishing a shopping trolley in supermarket aisles (apparently death by frozen chicken-bludgeoning is still an illegal on-the-spot punishment).

I've just realised that my momentary genuine pangs of heartfelt sorrow are becoming increasingly more and more fleeting. They are diminishing in their momentariness.

Yes, I think I delved deeply into the motives behind the 9/11 atrocity and felt that although I was an ill-educated oik, I had a vaguely even-handed understanding of how the situation unfolded - the whys, whats, wheres and yawns etc. We're talking pissed-up politcal pub-chat authority here not a professor standard philosophical lecture. We're talking breeze.

Still, I felt that I should face the realities of what was actually going on.

From the comfort of my sitting room.

When Bush and Blair invaded Iraq I knew this was a bad idea as did hundreds of thousands of others for obvious reasons and the aftermath proved to be more horrific than we could have ever imagined. Worse than that bad microdot trip locked in a beehive -we've been through too much together.

But this soldier's death bothered me. I mean, I watched the Baghdad skyline being bombed into obliteration on BBC News (eating Brie probably). I watched Daniel Pearl with a gun held to his head (as I picked the pepperoni off someone else's cold pizza at 4am). I watched Saddam Hussein hang (with Daft Punk playing in one ear whilst texting some cretin). I saw the online beheading of Ken Bigley. It was one of the most terrible things I've ever seen, especially following such depraved and harrowing abuse.

The beheading of American businessman Nick Berg was somehow worse.

How can it be possible to try and quantify distinctions between such terrible acts? I found that I could. And so could most of my friends. We're not sickos or deviants or vouyeurs or stalkers - most of them are well-educated, successful, well-rounded human beings (myself excluded). So what has become of us?

These things affected me deeply I'd thought. I'd surely considered all the implications (imaginable) of what this meant to the families involved. I'd thought about the longevity of their lives and how they'd wake up every morning for eternity knowing that their true love was slowly slaughtered with the worst fear already in their heart. I'd thought how they could never be happy again. I'd felt the same watching documentaries about serial killers and their victims or the families and survivors of natural tragedies or homelessness or ill-treatment of the elderly or the disabled or prostitution or Brookside.

My god, to know your child was raped and killed by some deranged, toothless zero with one eye on dip, the other on dazzle. I'd commit suicide, wouldn't you? To watch your brother slowly eaten to death by Motor Neurone Disease? To find the cadavar of the daughter who frequently stole from you, slumped, with needle still in hand in her bedroom (and to realise the last thing she saw on Earth was Big Brother 2009 Live Streaming).

I've thought about the pain these people have suffered and got to the point where my sympathy has become, er, robotic? On September 11 I lay awake for most of the night turning events over in my mind. On 7/7 I already felt that this was coming our way and was ready to be appalled and furious. I was also phoning round friends in London to check they weren't in a zillion pieces. In no particular order, I took on board the London/Madrid bombings, the Beslan school-siege, the Mumbai attacks, the war in Lebanon, Cho Seung-Hui's shooting-up of a high school, the invasion of Gaza, the death of Michael Jackson, the genocide in Darfur, the Bus Stalker Killer, the grisly assassination of Neda.

And the sad news that Margaret Thatcher had broken her arm.

And each time I swear I've truly felt it. And each time the encapsulation of all of the implications into emotion has got smaller, the time dwelt on them shorter. It's all there. Just micro-registered these days. Again not because I don't care but because I think I know all there is to know about these things and my brain has found a more efficient way to deal with them.

So this soldier...

The highest ranking British soldier to be killed in action since 1982's Falklands War. I did the obligatory gulp and cursory heartfelt ache - still half thinking about some stupid pun to daub on my mate's virtual wall and then realised that for the Taliban this was a major coup. I've read of the killing of so many Taliban leaders and thought nothing of it other than that the army are partially succeeding in their mission. For the Taliban this a major scalp that will envigour their troops. This is the most complicated strategy game imaginable and with the most appalling of consequences. And it appears to still be in its spawning stages. The strategy is all we really hear about in the news but this overlooks the realities.

For the first time ever I saw things from their side (things they consider to be positive), not because I sympathised with them but because I was angry. Like watching the German fans celebrate when they've beaten England on penalties. You kind of want to get into their heads just for a nanosecond to try and understand their inexplicable joy. Like looking through the ski-mask eyeholes of a horror-movie serial killer armed with a nailgun, stalking through the incubater ward in a hospital. Or the alien race that invades our planet and wants to exterminate us all. Hmm, how would I do it? I thought I'd applied this empathetic logic to our real life war and understood its implications - I certainly had regarding the 9/11 jumpers. I've simply forgotten. With just a tiny shift of perspective I realise I don't know everything at all. In fact I don't really know anything. My emotions have logged-off. This is so complex and motley that there are angles I've never even considered.

I actually know nothing.

I am just another shallow SpaceBooker twatting utter breeze. The empathy that I thought was sincere is merely mechanical. Nearly everyone I know has watched at least one of the beheading videos or has an opinion on Gaza or Somalia or Hollyoaks. Far too many appear to have an encyclopeadic knowledge of serial killers. They all probably watched these atrocities for the same reasons as me. An interest in the unjustly morbid or a feeling of self-righteousness. And we've all become immune.

There, I've said it.

We've watched so many horrors unfolding live-on-air that we think we know all there is to know about human suffering and tragedy so we deal with it as we would a lack of any donut peaches in Morrisons' fruit aisle.

I can't remember the last time I actually read an article in a newspaper about a soldier being killed in Afghanistan. I've registered each and every headline but I haven't actually read them. What was I going to read? Soldier killed on foot patrol? Roadside bomb? Family informed? Cue momentary sorrow. I knew it all already.

My god. We are the automaton generation. We function with C3P0-like esoteric, robotic emotion. This is scary.

So anyway, Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Thorneloe was commanding officer of the 1st Battalion Welsh Guards. The 1,000 troops under his command are deployed in Lashkar Gah and the surrounding areas in Helmand province. He was 39 years old and married with two daughters. He was also a keen polo player. An improvised explosive device exploded under his BvS 10 Viking armoured vehicle. He was killed instantly and his murder will rank highly on the Taliban's hit-list. Killed alongside him was Trooper Joshua Hammond of 2nd Royal Tank Regiment. Joshua was 18 years old and his death will be seen as a tactical success by the Taliban. So which one ranks more importantly? Well obviously neither, because both, when you actually look closely and don't flip the pages, are encircled by an incredibly complicated spiral of sorrow. The tactical strategies no longer come into the equation.

Just some young dad dude or a funny teenager that leave everything empty for those closest to them when they're not there any more. Hey, I forgot to care too.

Click. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

A Valentine's Day Tale

"Last night...


I swiftly had to apply my instinctive twinkle-toed tailstop braking system almost immediately after settling into the rhythmic hippety-hop style of walk that I'd naturally adopted following the first near-fatal slip on the treacherous, lumpy ice. I was almost certain that there used to be a semblance of pavement underfoot here somewhere. Seriously, where the fuckin' hell were the gritters during (yawn) yet another predicted 'coldest winter flap for several zillion aeons?' I mean, did Monsieur Nostradamus not foretell this shit centuries ago? 

Er, anyway, I was apprehensive and keyed up, and for good reason. I was on my way to meet my new flame Fiona you see, and pretty damn fine she was too, my friend - all ash-blonde ringlets and a feisty aura of mystery.

I contemplated getting a bus into town and then decided it would probably be quicker to watch a slow-motion replay of the sedated three-toed sloths' sports day sack race. Fuck it, it was only a couple of miles, and a damn site warmer on the move. It's. All. Good.

I mean, Jesus, why does the entire country have to grind to a halt because of a bit of stupid snow? Put on some decent footwear. Simple.

Actually, I was glad I'd rung work earlier to say that I couldn't make it into the office because the 'car's going nowhere.'  Fuck it man, loads of people did and I live four miles away at least.

I needed to stop at an Offie to grab a couple of bottles of wine on the way to her house. I hadn't been there before and we'd only been out two or three times so far - you know the kind of thing: got off with each other at Sombrero-Steve's house party on the stairs (lush); went for a Mexican (horrifically hot); quaffed a few ciders, Sambucas and wound up fucking awkwardly in my hallway. And the kitchen.

I think I passed out in the bedroom. I can't quite remember the last bit.

Anyhow, I s'pose potentially, you could have said that rather a lot was riding on last night, if you know what I mean?

For starters, it just happened to be Valentine's Day evening. Friendly Fires were frenetically cow-belling their way into my eardrums like a jittery jackhammer, courtesy of my fancy new Skullcandy G.I. headphones, and hey, were these not the moments to be cherished if you own anything resembling a fully-functioning soul?

So I bimbled and then I skidded my way down the Kettering Road towards a nervy but nevertheless intoxicating, frost-thawing feast. I couldn't quite remember her surname, to my shame, something like Atherton or Addlestone (or was that the sweet cider we were drinking last week?) Didn't matter, I was sure there'd be some old letters or a card lying around somewhere to scan so I could indelibly etch it on my brain forever. She seemed to be really fucking cool and beautiful, so fuck minor points. I'd seen her bounding energetically around the tired-old haunts for a while now, spraffing to loads of cool people I knew, so it was always only a matter of time before our paths properly crossed - she was obviously into the same things as me.

Shit, she's gorgeous, intelligent (I see her writing sometimes), into music (I think she sings or plays something), vegetarian, into holistic remedies (okay, slight alarm-bells ringing) but undoubtedly up for the right royal rumpus and maybe, most importantly of all, at that moment was cooking some kind of moussaka with ricotta topping(?) Just for us.

'Tings be lookin' sweet ma frien', y'understand me? 'Ear 'dis now. Spin out 'Trampton Town. B-B-buzzin'. C-comin' at'cha. Trillion mile a nanosecond, get me? All da way from da Birchfield Ruff-up, right up to er, whatever that road's called next to the Bradders. You know the one I mean?

Following a brief, but harrowing, labyrinthine platform game-style conga round Mickey's to the Blossom Hill section (situated somehow impenetrably close to the front door) I stepped back outside into the Siberian slush. And then -

A snowball shattered in my face, with a generous proportion of it ending up in my mouth. The momentary shock and flash of pain was enough to make me want to cry like a girl, without the added surprise of an assault on my sensitive-teeth's sensibilities, just for that ferociously unexpected aftershock. Cunt.

Was a fucking good shot too - I kinda saw him out my peripheries I think, but hey, I might be lying. Anyway he fuckin' ran away laughing. And somehow clung to the ice like a sticky-toed winter gecko.

Fuck him. I couldn't chase him. I was struggling to walk.

But walk on I did, using my scarf to wipe my frozen fizzog. And then just before I got to cleaning my steamed-up glasses, hoopla, I slipped - almost flipping upside-down temporarily - before landing with a splash on my coccyx. I managed to smash one of the bottles of red during this whole sorry episode and the carpet of slush was starting to look like a murder scene from Fargo. I was partially lying in some strewn bin-bags, thankfully head-end to the good, i.e., on them and a little bit in some weird shit that I wasn't sure I could ascertain the origin of.

I hadn't worn decent shoes.

Naturally, I scrambled to my feet with an expression of utter indifference to any agonising pain I may or may not have been enduring and scanned the horizon to see if anyone witnessed my fumblings. Lots did. But more importantly did anyone I actually know observe this shit? Don't think so. So, small mercies.

Then I briefly mused outrageously about compensation.

I was pretty much sopping all over my arse from Claret which was seeping into the snow and facing an unavoidable buttock-inspection from the girl I really felt for - when she'd said a full-bodied red, I ain't particularly sure that's what she'd meant. Oh, fuck it, I thought - focus on my batty and laugh. Might as well get it over and done with.

All was by no means totally lost. It's surely in my unpredictable and exciting rock n' roll nature to turn the fuck up, late, with a tale, even if I do look like a twat.

So I did.

After punching the head off a snowman in a stranger's front garden and hurting my wrist.

I was starting to like the way Fiona and I were getting along in those first, sweet, tentative steps of our (ok, my imagined) relationship, and when I arrived...

Obviously, I lied about everything that had happened on the way - some big geezers, dunno, kind of just walked into it, weren't bothered about me, was lucky really, etc, and the evening unraveled thus.

She was listening to Razorlight? Maybe she'd just put something kind of neutral on that she thought wouldn't offend my ears before fervently questioning me about what I was into - I mean, I don't want to admit this shit, but I do own the first two Coldplay albums. I know.

I'd also brought along the DVD of The Wrestler to watch. I hadn't recommended it, she had. Apparently she knows the names of lots of wrestling holds or something. Might be interesting I thought?

Anyway, the DVD wouldn't play for some reason (probably me fucking things up when I'd burnt it earlier) and so we settled for watching M. Night Shyamalan's Signs from her collection. She served munch about an hour or so into the film, and shortly after crunching my way through the sixth or seventh arduous forkfull of lord-fuckin'-knows-what (I'm certain it should have been tender and not like Joan of Arc's charred chinbone) it dawned on me that the film we were watching was complete toss. The main flaw in the technologically-advanced, galaxy-vaulting, world-conquering aliens' plans was to somehow overlook their significant achillies' heel - instantaneous death if exposed to water, so er, probably best to avoid this type of planet to attack? They're probably not even that common. Anyway, the aliens didn't, they chose Earth to invade.

At almost that exact second she turned to me, laughed, and said:

'This food's disgusting isn't it?'

She was not wrong.

'Hey, I'm a crap cook too,' I offered, pushing away the offensive plate.

And then it was funny.

She slapped her forehead and then properly laughed:

'This film's fucking shite as well isn't it?'

She zapped the TV. And then, despite my freezing, rouge-drenched jeans, grazed hands, nauseated palatte and assaulted artistic senses we had a moment of perfection.

Pure laughter.

She kissed me, then she hugged me and then she said:

'Shall we split-up before we even begin?'

'Yeah,' I replied.

And on my merry way I jolly well trotted."

The G8 Summit: A Success Story?

As the inspiring We're Not Afraid* campaign gathers more and more subscribers at an amazing rate in response to the July 7 atrocities, and July 21 bungled attacks in London, it is clear that al-Qa'ida haven't succeeded in their objectives. What they did achieve though, was to divert attention away from the issues up for discussion at the G8 Summit in Gleneagles, Scotland.
The bombs were timed to coincide with the gathering of arguably the most powerful men in the world, including President Bush, UN Secretary Kofi Annan and Tony Blair. The results of the summit were overshadowed by the aftermath of the London terrorist strikes.

So what was the outcome of these discussions?

The G8, (no, it's not text-speak for gate), comprises of Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, the UK and the US, with the heads of state or government meeting annually to tackle major economic and political issues facing domestic societies and the international community. They deal with macroeconomic management (obviously), international trade and the relationships between developing countries. Member states act as host on a rotational basis, and 2005 has seen the United Kingdom at the helm, with Mr Blair chairing proceedings.

Top of the agenda at Gleneagles were Africa and climate change. These two issues represent the most serious problems facing the international community, presently and for the foreseeable future. The other pressing issue being peace in the Middle East.

As things currently stand, Africa will not meet any of the Millennium Development Goals. In a continent where 3,000 children die every single day from malaria, action is long overdue.

Concerning global-warming, ice in the Arctic has shrunk by 1,000,000 square kilometres and with sea-levels rising, we have lived through the hottest 10 years currently on record. All occurring since 1991.

So what was achieved? These are some of main promises:

Africa:

• The 18 poorest countries have had their national debt cancelled. There are more than 40 still waiting.
• Annual development aid will be increased by $25 billion by 2010 (as part of an overall increase of $50 billion for all developing countries) - more than doubling the 2004 level.
  There will be universal access to anti-HIV/Aids drugs by 2010.
• Funding to eradicate Polio.
• To reach 85% of people vulnerable to malaria with drugs and bed-nets, with a view to saving 600,000 children's lives each year.
• 75,000 African Union troops (including the 20,000-strong AU Stand-By Force) will be trained and equipped to help prevent and resolve conflict and war.

Climate-Change:

• To promote energy efficiency and to finance clean technologies - coal, diesel and methane, renewable energy, bioenergy and more efficient power grids.
• To promote the research and development of hydrogen-powered vehicles that emit water rather than harmful fumes.
• Not much else.

Peace In The Middle East:

• Support for the Quartet Special Envoy for Gaza Disengagement, James Wolfensohn, regarding the Israeli withdrawal from Gaza and parts of the West Bank.
• $3 billion agreed for the Palestinian Authority for investment in infrastructure with contributions over the next 3 years to help build the economy.
• A pledge of support for the newly-elected democratic government of Lebanon and urging the withdrawal of Syrian forces there.

So, some promising results have come out of last month's summit, but behind the posturing pop stars and their politician pals' spiel, we need to see some real results. There is certainly a lot more that could have been done.
This year alone, we have seen genocide in Darfur, western Sudan, where the civil-war is ongoing. We have watched all-too-familiar images of famine in Niger which the west knew was coming - there were appeals for food as far back as last November. We have witnessed the demolition of shantytowns in Zimbabwe, rendering 700,000 people homeless, under the orders of dictator Robert Mugabe.

This is while Africa is top of the G8 agenda.

We are now seeing progress in Israel with the dismantling of Jewish settlements, which must be incredibly difficult for all concerned - with Israeli removing Israeli - but this is a huge step forward for the Middle East and they should be commended for their actions.

As for global warming, Mr Bush has refused to budge, having been handed the Kyoto Agreement and blowing his nose with it. He has finally conceded that climate change does exist, and is a genuine problem caused by human activity though, so there is hope for further progress when the G8 meet again in November...

We shall see.

Is it hot in here or is it me? aTcHoOo!

* http://www.werenotafraid.com/ is essential viewing.

The Roadmender: Beyond Repair?

On the evening of November 10, more than 150 people congregated at The Roadmender for a public meeting to discuss the venue's future. Tellingly, not one single member of the Conservative County Council cabinet, those responsible for the outcome, could be bothered to turn up.

Despite having the clout of showbiz radio-types Jo Whiley and Andrew Collins, who put their names to the Save Our Roadmender petition, alongside six and a half thousand other of us more lowly music fans (and regular venue users), on Monday, November 14, the cabinet voted to withdraw its funding from early next year.

The Roadmender was receiving around £140,000 from local council grants - £58,230 of which came from Northampton County Council annually. In April this year, the East Midlands Arts Council announced that it was withdrawing its funding which accounted for %40 of the venue's grant income. This becomes effective as of April 2006, which means that The Roadmender will probably have to close its doors for the last time before Christmas. Seasons' greetings to the town's youth from a contemptuous council.

A recommendation was made to cabinet for the council to end its financial commitment to the venue and work alongside trustees to help secure grants and sponsorship from other organisations.

Does this strike anyone else as being a little like stealing a kid's BMX and then offering him/her to hop onto their own stunt-pegs for a trundle down to the local Halfords? Sheesh.

Cabinet member for Community Services, Councillor Rosemary Bromwich has stated that, '..all our investigations and debates come back to the same point - this money would be better invested in other cultural activities and projects for young people.'

As for which ones? Hmm?

A beach at Sixfields? Maybe a simulated lunar surface in Jimmy's End? Well, you try and find out. She also cites other problems with the venue: poor pedestrian access, lack of parking availability, safety issues due to its location next to a dual-carriageway, etc. Now I genuinally don't want to be a pedant but these objections just don't stand up to close scrutiny.

Since when did a 5 minute walk from the town centre constitute poor pedestrian access or is there a pool of quicksand somewhere along the journey that I've somehow overlooked? Are there wild beasts to be dodged - lions, crocodiles, maybe even velociraptors?

A lack of parking availability? Forgive me, but is there not a council-owned, multi-storey carpark directly opposite the venue? It's the big, grey, oblong-shaped, tiered structure. You know, some kind of garagey, parking-lot type of affair.

I think it's called the Mayorhold. I assume there's no way that council departments can work together to solve this tricky strategic problem? Besides, the kids who attend the alcohol-free nights at The Roadmender don't drive there. They get dropped off by their parents.

The venue is also located next to a duel-carriageway. By sheer coincidence it is also sited directly adjacent to a pedestrian-crossing that traverses said dragster-alley. This 'duel-carriageway' is in the middle of the town centre and with the sheer profusion of traffic lights, the labyrinthine one-way system and spawning speed cameras every 100 metres it seems unlikely that Doc Emmet Brown and Marty McFly would have selected it to pick up the required speed of 88mph needed to coincide with a bolt of lightning due to strike the wonky weather vane atop of Northampton's Best Kebab House at the bottom of Gold Street on the morning of Friday, October 25, 1985.

1.21 Gigawatts? Great Scott!

Jon Gloerson, interim Chief Executive of The Roadmender says they are repaying their debts on time and that the balance is rapidly decreasing. They are in the middle of a turn-around operation where trading deficits have been reduced by £60,000 from 2002/03 to 2003/04. He goes on to say that in 2004/05, The Roadmender broke even and the financial projections for 2005/06 point to the accumulation of a surplus which would help to alleviate the Arts Council funding shortfall.

The council isn't interested.

Mr Gloerson also says that they have been approached by a number of possible new partners. Let's hope so.

There's a venue in Harlow, Essex called The Square which is funded by Essex County Council and managed by Essex Youth Service through its Harlow Locality. They have seen the likes of Blur and The Beta Band put on performances there, just as we have at The Roadmender. The Square has an extensive programme of live-performances, video and recording facilities, and a Rock School among many other ongoing projects. They receive funding from the Arts Council (East), the regional Arts Lottery Programme and the European Social Fund.

Sadly, what's good enough for the youth of Harlow isn't good enough for the youth of Northampton.

Do you know how much 45 minutes of Mr Droning Keating cost our council at this year's Balloon Festival?

Trust me, you really don't want to.

Why there's No Excuse for Not Voting

So, once again the time to decide is almost upon us. No, not who you want to win Strictly Dance Fever (although it is hotting up quite nicely I must confess), but which political party we will entrust with the reins of power in the forthcoming General Election. I'll forgive you for thinking, 'Who cares? They're all the same,' but it is this general apathy that helps politicians to get away with bungling their way through their tenures without a large proportion of the population even realising how inept some of them really are. They bore people (particularly young eligible voters) to the point of distraction with confusing, mind-numbing facts, figures and (yawn) statistics. The Labour government was voted in at the last General Election by just 24% of the public, so their policies, by no means, represent the wants and needs of every person in society.

It is extremely important that the younger members of society get to the ballot boxes with pen in hand, as the 18-35ish age group are precisely the people who are not represented in the Houses of Parliament.

How can they be acting on our behalf when they they don't live as we live? The youngest Member of Parliament is Liberal Democrat Sarah Teather, MP for Brent East, who weighs in at a veritable spring-chickenlike 30 years old. So it's not surprising if you feel like you can't really identify with them. If the grey-vote provide the majority turnout then it is because they feel that the politicians share their vision of how this country should be. If a party wants to govern this country as though it was still the 1950s and that's just how you wished things still were, then you will go out and tick their box.

But hey, these are the noughties, this country has changed a great deal for the better, and for the worse, but to not vote in the election is to relinquish your right to complain about change not happening quickly enough.

On May 5, both County Council and Parliamentary elections will take place to select councillors and MPs. Tony Blair, who visited Northamptonshire back in February, cited the county as one of the major battlegrounds in the country because it contains some of the most marginal Labour-held seats.

So, who gets your vote?

I know, I'm as confused as most people. I suppose it comes down to policies, as none of the party leaders are particularly good-looking.

Here are some of the proposals regarding topical issues: 

Tax:

• Labour has pledged to not raise income tax and promises tax-cuts for families. They haven't ruled out a rise in national insurance though.
• The Conservatives promise £4bn worth of cuts, while the Lib Dems say that they won't have to cut taxes, but will create a 50% rate for earners of more than £100,000 per year.
• The Green Party will make it a 60% rate for these earners. The rate currently stands at 40%.

Education:

• Labour will cap university top-up fees, which they promised they wouldn't bring in at the last General Election, at £3,000.
• The Conservatives will scrap university fees and instead charge interest on student loans. Lib Dem will cut class sizes to 20 and do away with uni tuition fees.

Health:

• Labour offer more choice over hospitals, with waiting times at an 18-week maximum.
• The Tories say they will crack down on MRSA, while the Lib Dems are offering free prescriptions and eye-tests.
• The Green Party want to increase the NHS funding to around £90bn per year.

The Environment:

• Is climate-change a bigger threat to us than international terrorism? With Labour currently chairing the G8, they will apply more pressure, internationally, on reducing CO2 emissions by 60% by 2050.
• The Lib Dems will put a freeze on GM crops and want 20% of energy to come from renewable sources.
• The Greens will replace VAT with eco-taxes, including a carbon tax, to penalise environmentally-unfriendly products like fossil fuels.

Civil Liberties:

• Labour are in favour of bringing in ID cards to help combat international terrorism. Feel a little Orwellian? The Spanish have had ID cards for years but they didn't stop the Madrid bombers from slipping through the net. The Lib Dems will spend the ID card money on 10,000 more police officers.
• The Conservatives want a reform of the asylum system and have certainly been trying to tap into this controversial issue. Are they trying to link asylum-seekers to terrorism? It's up to you to decide. None of the major parties have done anywhere near enough to clarify the difference between migrants and asylum-seekers, perhaps with the exception of Charles Kennedy, Lib Dems, who said that the country was 'richer and more vibrant,' precisely because it was a 'multi-racial, multi-ethnic society.'

Iraq:

• One of the most emotive issues in this General Election. Do we trust Blair who has been proven to have taken our country to war, (the most extreme action that a government can take in your name, leading to the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians and 87 British soldiers so far, plus thousands of others), under false pretences?
• The Tories backed the war and the Lib Dems strongly opposed it.

There aren't just three choices either.

If you think the Green Party have got their priorities right, then vote for them. No vote is a wasted vote. Each one sends a message to Westminster - every vote counts.

Even ones for the strangely-orange xenophobe Robert Kilroy-Silk's Veritas party

Er, actually, that might be a wasted vote. But the important thing is that on May 5, you get out and vote. It is worth keeping in mind, the men and women of Iraq, who braved the reality of suicide-bombers, and stood in queues for hours to make their voices heard in a democracy that we imposed on them. For us not to go to the polls would be criminal. The world has changed a great deal in the last four years.

Time to get off our arses.

Up in Smoke?

From Puff the Magic Dragon to Puff Daddy, it seems that smoking, despite the clear health risks, is as popular today as it's ever been. Whether your tabs are just something to draw shapes in the air with when you're shakin' your stuff on the dancefloor or a device to add extra emphasis to your gesticulations and dramatic pauses, it seems that smoking is here to stay. But should we have to inhale other people's second-hand Richmond Superkings' smog whenever we go out for a drink or some grub? According to Liberal Democrat Lord Avebury, around 4,800 people die each year as a result of passive smoking.

The goverment's recent White Paper on Public Health plans to make most enclosed public areas, including offices and factories, smoke-free zones. The Department of Health received an unprecedented one thousand submissions from individuals regarding the paper. It will only be private members' clubs (where votes will decide) and pubs (which do not serve prepared food) that will not have to adhere to the new laws. This means up to 90% of bars will become smoke-free within the next few years. The restrictions will come into force in NHS and goverment buildings by 2006, with public places following suit in 2007, and licensed premises the year after that.

Whether the government will eventually be willing to follow their Irish counterparts by enforcing an outright nationwide ban on smoking in all pubs, restaurants and workplaces, as the British Medical Association would like, remains to be seen. As the law currently stands in Ireland, pub and restaurant owners face fines of up to £2,000 if punters are caught puffing on the premises.

It seems that due to the pragmatic nature of the Irish, the ban has been declared a success, even leading to a fall in the sale of cigarettes.

But can it work here?
JD Wetherspoon has announced plans to ban smoking in all of its 650 pubs by May 2006; two years before government laws come into action. The company, which pioneered no-smoking areas, has said that 60 of its pubs will become smoke-free zones in May of this year, amid worries that smoky pubs are deterring customers.

Smoking in public places isn't just a concern for us Brits. Bans have been introduced in a wide range of different countries across the world, from Australia to Tanzania.

In Oz, sparking up a fag after surfing on Manly Beach, one of the most picturesque stretches of coastline down under, will result in a hefty fine.

Sound harsh? Then try lighting up in the remote Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan, where they have introduced a total ban on tobacco sales. The penalties imposed on hotels, bars and restaurants is the loss of their business licenses and heavy fines. Could Bhutan become the world's first smoke-free nation?

In Cuba, the home of the cigar, their chuffing dictator Fidel Castro can't even blaze-up in a restaurant in his own capital without having to cough up some pesos for the fine he'd be subsequently slapped with. You're Havana laugh, (apologies).

So smokers are being marginalised the world over: some say demonised. Pro-smoking campaigners have suggested that businesses should be allowed to choose their own policy to suit customers and staff, for what is a perfectly legal habit that brings in millions of pounds to the treasury each year. Are smokers being treated like snoutcasts? Fag lepers? Should they ring bells to warn of their coming? Well, maybe not quite yet.

It seems things aren't as cut and dried as they first appear with regards to people's tolerance of smoking bans. Caterer & Hotelkeeper magazine recently reported that a pub landlord had lifted a smoking ban at The Junction Inn in Groombridge, Kent after sales plummeted by 'thousands of pints' during the 6 months of fume-free fun. Although food sales improved during the ban, they met only half of the loss in beer sales, which, over a 3-month period was equivalent to 100 barrels. The landlord said that said that the village regulars had felt alienated by the ban and had voted with their feet, but were now coming back and pushing sales up drastically.

So it can be difficult to gauge public opinion on this divisive issue. Ultimately, there is no way that non-smokers should be forced to breathe in other people's smoke against their wishes. No-smoking areas are not satisfactory - smoke is a feral beast, seemingly oblivious or ignorant to No Smoking signs, rendering them almost pointless.

Smoking is without doubt a killer. However, on the flip-side, the pro-smoking lobby isn't just made up of hardliners who think that Nicorette patches are for people who are too scared to smoke proper tabs. A great proportion of them would love to kick the habit, but you know, smokes just go so well with beer.

So we need a climate of tolerance and choice do we not? If you don't want to breathe in smoke, you shouldn't have to. If you do, then you should be able to.

Why not smoking pubs and non-smoking pubs? Then we can make our own choice of where we work, eat or drink. Not all non-smokers object to the evil vapour. Not all smokers insist on sucking the twisted mist constantly. In a democracy, where minorities are supposed to be represented, we should all have the choice...

Er, anyone got a light?

Do we need Trident?

"We don't need dangerous and costly Trident and cruise missiles," he stated back in 1983. The following year he called them,"...unacceptable, expensive, economically wasteful and militarily unsound."

Who did, you might be asking yourself?

Well surprisingly, these were the words of Tony Blair twenty three years before his decision to rush plans through parliament to update Britain's Trident missile-carrying nuclear submarines at an initial cost of £20 billion before he finally leaves office. The fleet will take an estimated seventeen years to develop and build and its shelf-life will run only until 2050. The final cost to the tax-payer looks set to run to over £70 billion. This is a programme that is fully supported by Prime Minister in-waiting Gordon Brown. The 160 warheads will have the combined power of 1,280 Hiroshimas - just one warhead that killed over 80,000 people in a single Japanese city in 1945. More than 90 Labour MPs voted against the proposed upgrade and the vote only succeeded with the support of the Conservative Party.

In 1968 the Non-Proliferation Treaty was opened for signature with the object of preventing the the spread of nuclear weapons technology, and to promote the peaceful use of nuclear energy; its ongoing goal being complete nuclear disarmament. The Treaty entered into force in 1970 and 188 parties have now joined, including five nuclear powers - United States, United Kingdom, France, Russia and China. The Treaty is legally binding on all states that are parties to it. Pakistan, India and Israel (all nuclear powers) have neither signed nor ratified the Treaty while North Korea withdrew in 2003.

Prime Minister Blair has said that Trident is the country's "ultimate insurance" against the return of a threat from a major nuclear power or against the new threat from rogue states such as Iran or North Korea who might support nuclear terrorism. He went on to say that Trident would only be used in self-defence.

So are the government behaving illegally? Well this is a matter that is still up for debate. Critics argue that the agreement between the UK and the US is a contravention of NPT rules as the transfer of nuclear weapons between states is not permitted. The goverment claims that only technology is being transferred and therefore the NPT is not being broken. It is illegal under the NPT to use a weapon which cannot discriminate between civilians and militants. Does this mean Trident breaches humanitarian law?

It seems that the only way to make a decision on which side of the debate to stand depends on a moral and ethical judgement as to whether you think that the money is being spent wisely in a post-Cold War world where the threats facing the UK as a nation have transformed dramatically.

Protestors involved with Faslane 365 calling themselves No Nukes Northants know exactly which side of the divide they fall. Evoking the spirit of the Women For Life On Earth, who, in September 1981, marched from Cardiff to RAF Greenham Common Airbase in Berkshire to challenge, through debate, the decision to site 96 cruise missiles there. On arrival, their request for a debate was ignored and they set up the Women's Peace Camp and so began a most audacious and lengthy protest that lasted for 19 years.

On October 1, 2006, Faslane 365 began what is to be a one year continuous blockade of the Faslane Naval Base. The blockade will run until September 30 this year and Faslane 365 are asking a wide range of local, national and even international people from all sections of civil society to assemble at the base with a commitment to staying for at least two days to make their concept for a peaceful future visible, and to aid the idea to demonstrate/block the base all year round. Faslane 365 staunchly promote non-violent protest and absolute respect for the opponent and everyone invovled. They undergo preparation and training to make sure they meet these ends.

On April 2, a number of No Nukes Northants protestors from across the county joined the '365 protestors and held their first in a number of peaceful demonstrations at Faslane Naval Base, situated on the Gare Loch; extending northwards from the Firth of Clyde in Scotland. The NNN protestors ranged in age from 14-50 and took the marathon journey to the base to convene with other protestors (including Northampton Action For Peace) armed with banners, scripts and musical instruments.

First day festivities from the Northants party included a performance of their play, 'Anti-Nuclear Monologues' which was written especially for the occasion. It follows the personal history of four of the protestors from the Aldermaston marches in the 1950s via Greenham Common to the present-day remonstrations. They also read poems about peace, held a Ceilidh (Gaelic gathering) and sang peace songs while sporting a rather fetching array of slogan-splashed pants. As in Y-fronts.

According to NNN's Chris Lowe:

"I think one of the major problems with this government is that they think they can do as they please without the consent of the people of this country. Now is the time to say no, this is not what we want. We don't want to send out a message of war against other nations, we want to send a message of peace, this is how we can best assure a safe and stable future for everyone."

For further reading:

Trident On Trial by Angie Zelter, or visit:

www.myspace.com/nonukesnorthants
http://www.faslane365.org/
http://www.actionforpeace.org.uk/